


An Hourglass Glued to the Table

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Career Ending Injuries, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hockey is–-was his only real talent. It was his only dream. It was the only thing that made the air in Michael’s lungs worth fighting for.Alternately Titled: Gavin Free is Totally McDreamy





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from the song 'Breathe (2 AM)' by Anna Nalick which I may or may not have discovered on Grey's Anatomy.
> 
> Also my love for the Habs kind of sort of definitely bled through into this fic, but I couldn't resist. What's a hockey fic without a bias towards your favourite team?
> 
> In this universe just imagine that the "Austin Roosters" are in place of the Dallas Stars.

PART ONE

 

Michael got his first concussion when he was sixteen. Honestly, he’s kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner–some of the guys he played with had already tallied up three or four. He remembers the Concussion with a Capital C as one of the worst times of his life. The weeks of laying in a silent, pitch black room just waiting for the time to pass. Suppressing the itch of not being able to do anything.

His mother had even driven up to see him using money she didn’t have. She insisted on staying as long as it took for him to get to what she deemed well enough.

Michael loved his mother for doing that, don’t get him wrong. But she could never understand just how painful it was for him. She wasn’t in hockey the same way he was. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ease the ever-present buzzing under his skin of needing to do _something, anything._

As terrible as those weeks with the concussion were, though, Michael doesn’t wish it never happened. He knows enough from then to recognise that yep, that’s probably a Concussion with a Capital C.

There’s something warm and wet dripping down the side of his face. Oh god, oh fucking god, everything hurts. Red had invaded the left side of Michael’s vision and there’s something tugging at his arm. He’s standing up now. Everything’s too hot and too cold all at once and _holy mother of god_ does it hurt.

Michael doesn’t notice his eyes are clenched shut until they’re aching from it.

“Jones, bud, can you hear me?” A faraway voice asks.

Michael tries to say words, but they don’t sound like much to his ears.

“Okay, shit…Get him to the hospital as soon as possible,” the voice demands. They must be off the ice now. The constant roar of the crowd is significantly quieter.

Michael finds the strength to open his eyes and immediately regrets it. The world surges beneath him as Michael reaches out to the nearest…whatever it is within arms reach.

Thinking hurts. The shaky steps he keeps taking hurt. The only thing that seems to not be hurting is breathing. Michael focuses on that.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale. Someone starts pulling him forwards by his shoulders. He can feel warm liquid on his face and can’t figure out if it’s blood or tears.

Exhale. A cold wind starts biting at his hands–When did he take his gloves off? The ground beneath his skates is rougher and it takes everything Michael has not to wince at the passing car horns. Something cool is pressed against his forehead. It helps, kind of, but now all Michael can focus on is the pain piercing through his leg.

Well, that and the darkness approaching him from all sides.

 

 

When Michael comes to, it’s in the bustling racket of an Austin hospital emergency room. There are hornets in his leg now. Buzzing around and stinging and making Michael feel like his head is going to explode. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“What happened?” he tries to say.

Ray, one of the team’s medics, looks over at him and Michael realises he’s in a hospital bed. “You’ll be okay, Jonesy. Just hang in there.” He pats the logo on Michael’s shoulder. “The doctor will be here in a minute. Just a little longer.”

Michael can’t remember if he scored the goal before he got here. The lights in the ceiling are buzzing too loudly. He can’t remember _how_ he got here.

He closes his eyes and surrenders to sleep.

 

 

“When will I be able to play again?” is the first question Michael asks once he’s out of surgery and the morphine’s out of his system.

“Well,” Dr Free begins. He looks the same age as Michael and too young to be the best at his job. “We’ll wait for the concussion to fade, which could take anywhere from a few weeks to a few months.” Oh, yeah. He’s also British.

“I’ve had concussions before, asshole.” Michael snarls. It’s hard to focus on anything with the hospital room lights on. “What about my leg?”

The doctor looks down at his clipboard, a light blush dusting his cheekbones. “Dr Tuggey will see how it’s doing in a few weeks once it’s had a chance to heal.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

Dr Free’s lips press themselves into a thin line. “Be careful with it until then. No unnecessary movement. If you need to get up get a nurse to help you.” He says like Michael would be stupid enough to try without a nurse.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Michael asks. His fingers nervously twirl their way through the bedsheets. Since waking up he’s gotten nothing but the same repetitions of the same meaningless answers.

Dr Free looks down at his clipboard again and frowns. “Dr Tuggey will see in a couple weeks.”

Michael groans and leans his head back onto his pillow. Pain blossoms in his head once more.

“Right, well,” Dr Free takes a step towards the door. “I’ll be on my way then.”

“Wait,” Michael beckons. Dr Free pivots to look at him. His face is making an expression Michael’s not in any state of mind to interpret. “Turn off the lights before you leave.”

Dr Free nods briskly, “Of course.”

Michael closes his eyes and listens to the retreating squeak of white sneakers on the linoleum floor. The world is blanketed in darkness as the door lightly clicks shut. Michael wishes he could find sleep. He wishes his brain wasn’t made of cotton.

But most of all he wishes he was on the ice.

 

 

It takes him a total of three hours to memorise the patterns on the ceiling.

The hospital blinds aren’t worth shit and let too much and not enough light in at the same time. A stiff-looking white chair sits in the corner beside his bed. There’s a bin the night nurse–-June or Judith or Janice-–set on the other side of the bed after throwing up what little food the day nurse gave him.

Aside from Dr Free, his obnoxious gaggle of interns, and the nurses occasionally checking in, Michael doesn’t have a lot of human interaction. It’s not necessarily a _bad_ thing. It’s not like he was throwing parties every other night before the Concussion. Also, every person to enter the room kicked the headache up another notch. But still. It would be nice if someone brought him soup from time to time. June/Judith/Janice probably would if he asked. She seems nice like that.

The morphine drip attached to Michael’s IV only works every so often. Something about not wanting him to get addicted. Michael usually embraces pain–-that achy feeling after a good workout, the scrape on his knuckles after a good on-ice fight–-but _goddamn_ does he wish they would give him the drugs a little more often.

 

 

“Good morning, Michael,” Dr Free grins when he enters on Michael’s twelfth day in the hospital. Two labcoat-wearing interns trail behind him.

Michael digs his fingers into the mattress a little. His name is _Michael_ , not _Michool_. “Dr Free.”

“I’ve got good news,” he says ominously. Last night Michael’s dream featured a pink-haired Dr Free enslaving Austin like some Bond villain. It must be a sign, Michael thinks.

“Can I skate yet?” He’s already missed enough games for it to count.

“No, not yet. But,” Dr Free waves his hands above his head. “No more bedrest! Hooray!”

_Who let this man be a doctor?_ Michael thinks. “So I can go home, then?” he asks warily.

“Not exactly. You can be wheelchaired around the hospital, though.” Dr Free hastily adds, “And your concussion seems to be healing quite nicely.”

Michael’s hands dig further into the mattress. He feels like punching something. He needs to be back in the game.

“This is fantastic news, Mr Jones.” One of the interns adds unhelpfully. Her hair is wild and frizzy. She and the other intern stand closer to the door than Dr Free. They almost look like they’re shielding themselves from him with their clipboards. “At the rate you’re recovering, the leg should be completely healed in no time.”

The other intern decides to speak up. “At least now you can eat the cafeteria ‘food’.” The first one nudges the second one in a way Michael assumes is an attempt at being covert.

Dr Free coughs and the interns snap to attention doe-eyed. “Don’t listen to him. The cafeteria food is edible…enough.”

The whole exchange makes Michael want to kill the three of them all the more. This is definitely one of the Top Five Worst Moments of Michael Jones' Life. Including that one time his leg got fucked up and he couldn't play hockey anymore.

“No,” Michael says firmly.

Dr Free raises an eyebrow. “No, you won’t eat the cafeteria food?”

“No,” Michael repeats. “I’m not gonna be _wheelchaired_ around this fucking hospital.”

 

 

He ends up being wheelchaired around the hospital. Michael’s honestly surprised he lasted as long as he did before breaking down and begging Janice to take a walk with him down the halls.

When he did, she smiled warmly, placed a hand on her hip. and drawled, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Janice either doesn’t recognise him or doesn’t care. Whichever one it is, Michael appreciates it. She wheels him to the other hallway and back like she was born for it. Making small talk about the weather, mild, and stories about her step-kids. Michael listens as well as he can and feels more guilty than he expects about not sharing anything back.

“Nobody’s giving me any answers,” he says once they’ve finished their third round. “How long until I go home. ‘We’ll see’.”

Janice suppresses a giggle at his imitation of Dr Free’s accent.

“How long until I go back to work? ‘We’ll see’.” He sighs and rests his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair. “I just want to _know_ , you know?”

Janice nods. “You’ve just gotta stick it out. Once you’re outta here, it’ll seem like you’ve barely been here at all.”

Michael makes a noise in agreement. “I just wish that–I’m sorry.” He cuts himself off. The hallway seems too open and too empty for this conversation. Too exposed. “You probably have actual work to do other than entertaining me.”

“Oh, please,” Janice scoffs. “This place is always so boring this late at night. Don’t worry about it.”

Michael wishes he was back on the ice.

He makes Janice lift him out of the wheelchair and back into the bed. She brushes the top of his head and even though she’s practically a stranger, it makes his chest twinge for his mother. Michael shoos her out of the room. She puts up a hell of a fight, insisting she really has nothing better to do and he’s really more interesting than the other patients, but she eventually leaves.

When she returns to check on him a couple hours later he feigns sleep.

 

 

“Good morning, Michael,” Dr Free says as chipper as ever. It’s been the exact same greeting every day since Michael got here. The same ‘Good morning, Michael’ and the same has-to-be-fake smile and the same goddamn interns looking at him likes some science experiment rather than a human being.

Michael groans and rolls his face into his pillow. “Go away,” he moans. The back of his mind tingles knowing he sounds like a pouting five-year-old. He shoves it down and doesn’t care that much. Dr Free is annoying.

“How’s the leg feeling today?” Dr Free asks for the thousandth time.

Michael groans into the pillow some more.

He hears the instantly recognisable sound of squeaking sneakers. “I’ll take that as an ‘okay’. Now, Michael.” Dr Free pauses, obviously expecting Michael to move and look at him.

Michael doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I have great news-fantastic news even.”

Michael does turn, but it’s only so he can laugh loudly and dryly. “Remember the last time you said that?”

The interns are standing in the corner looking somehow flightier than they were the first time he saw them. “I think you’ll actually appreciate this good news.” Dr Free informs.

They stand there for a moment. The four of them staring at each other. Eyes flickering back and forth. “Well,” Michael gives a half-assed attempt to keep the impatience out of his voice. “What is it?”

Dr Free clears his throat. “I _politely_ asked Dr Tuggey if she could move up the examination of your leg. You should know how much longer you’ll be here by 4 pm this afternoon.”

“Fucking finally,” Michael gives a whole-assed attempt not to smile. He can save that for when the asshole is out of the room.

A couple hours later he’s sitting in an office with expensive-looking equipment littered along a variety of sterile white tables. There was a plaque on the door Michael saw when the nurse wheeled him in. It reads ‘ _Dr Lindsay Tuggey Orthopedics/Physical Therapy_ ’. Those words both concern and relieve Michael.

Dr Tuggey smiles when she walks into the room. She has a pretty face and Michael has enough mind to feel embarrassed of his flimsy hospital gown.

“Good afternoon, Mr Jones,” she greets and Michael likes her already. None of that ‘Michool’ bullshit. It’s refreshing. “I’m Dr Tuggey and hopefully we can get you back to hockey as soon as possible.”

Michael resists the urge to swing his legs back and forth on the table.

“I’ve seen your X-rays,” she begins while pulling on a pair of gloves. “They look very promising.”

“That’s…promising,” Michael says. “What does that mean exactly?”

Dr Tuggey smiles at him some more. Michael’s come to realise everyone here does that, smile constantly. On most of the staff, it’s unnerving. “That means that best-case-scenario, you’ll be out of here by next week. Worst-case-scenario two or three more weeks.”

“That’s…” _A lot of games_ , Michael doesn’t say.

“Promising.” Dr Tuggey steps towards Michael. “I’m going to start the examination now, okay?”

Michael tries to make any facial expression that isn’t would-desperately-be-elsewhere.

She starts feeling the flesh around his wound. During the past two weeks, Michael has tried his best to avoid looking at it. It was mostly too bruised and swollen to see anything else, but from what his teammates and Ray had told him it was _bad_. Michael was pretty concussioned-out when the leg thing happened. He only had some idea in involved a caught stick and the other guy’s skate and waking up with an assload of stitches. And a broken something. That too.

“Tell me if at any point you start to feel pain,” Dr Tuggey says almost carefully. It’s neither a question or a command, yet feels like both. “How’s it been feeling for the past couple days? Any complications?”

Michael shakes his head. “No, I’ve tried to be careful with it.”

“That’s good. Have you been having any trouble sleeping?” she asks casually as if her hands aren’t feeling up Michael’s leg.

“Sleep’s pretty much the same as norm– _shit_ ,” he hisses. His hands curl reflexively.

Dr Tuggey pulls her hands up as the pain fades. “Did that hurt?”

Michael bites back a ‘ _What do you think?_ ’ and nods with teeth clenched.

Dr Tuggey frowns and her forehead creases. “I’m going to do again, okay Mr Jones?” Before Michael can answer, her gloved fingers are pressing down on the same area of his leg.

“ _Motherfucker_.” Michael’s lip finds itself pressed between his teeth, just on the verge of bleeding.

Dr Tuggey slowly reaches behind her and grabs her clipboard– _Does every doctor here have a fucking clipboard_? She has an expression on her face Michael doesn’t want to interpret. He doesn’t like the heavy frown or the calculated haze of her eyes.

“Mr Jones,” Michael doesn’t like the sound of Dr Tuggey’s voice either. “I’m going to schedule you for another set of X-rays today.”

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks. His voice is too shaky.

Dr Tuggey waves a hand, “It’s probably nothing. Just some extra tests to make sure.” Her smile isn’t particularly assuring.

 

 

The air in the conference room was…off. It was colder, stiffer, and all the energy seemed to be sucked out of it the moment Michael was wheeled in. A representative from the team was already there–-of-fucking-course–-as well as Dr Tuggey and Dr Free.

“Mr Jones,” Dr Free began and that is bad. That is very bad. Dr Free has never once before called him Mr Jones. He’s always been ‘Michool’, even when he was sobbing and oh so desperate for pain meds.

Michael takes a deep breath. He needs to know what’s wrong. He needs the waiting to be over.

“Mr Jones,” Dr Free repeats. “The injuries you sustained are far worse than we originally expected them to be.”

The team representative, Burnie Burns, leans forward onto the conference table. It seems too big to Michael. An entire conference room for the four of them. “How long will his recovery be? Is there any way to speed it up or, uh, help it along?”

“That’s not really what we’re here to discuss,” Dr Tuggey says. Her lips are thin.

Michael breathes in and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Like I said, the injuries are far more extensive than we originally thought,” Dr Free picks up. “He should be able to walk, run, ride a bicycle, but…” Dr Free looks down at his clasped hands.

Michael feels his face pale. His mouths form around a silent gasp of ‘no’.

Dr Tuggey clears her throat. “We believe it would be too dangerous for Mr Jones to return to hockey–or at least competitively.”

This time the ‘no’ is audible. Michael cries into the too-large, too-empty conference table.


	2. PART TWO

PART TWO

 

Ramsey shows up the next day.

If this were any regular injury they would’ve filled themselves with as much alcohol as possible and then some back at Michael’s apartment. When Ramsey get’s drunk he likes to reminisce about his fifteen minutes of fame. World juniors forever ago. Ramsey scored an assist on the winning goal for gold. The entire country was on top of him for the next year and a half. But then, two sub-par seasons and an early exit from the playoffs later, he was banished to the land of forgotten and underappreciated NHLers.

But it’s not any regular injury. And judging by the lines in Ramsey’s face, he knows that too.

“Hey kid,” Ramsey says patting the rail of Michael’s bed. The Roosters are back in town after a losing game against Philly. Everything kind of sucks right now.

Michael nods to him, “Ramsey.” God, Michael hates how weak his voice sounds. How fragile and small and backed into a corner it’s making him seen.

Ramsey’s standing at the foot of the hospital bed Michael has to stay in for the next three weeks. He looks like the motherfucking grim reaper. Taller than he’s ever seemed before with so many more lines sunk into his face than Michael’s ever noticed. He’s not the oldest guy in the league by a mile, but he’s getting up there. Ramsey’s been on the team the longest.

He pats Michael’s foot awkwardly. “It’s–-uh-–it’s good to see you.”

Michael nods again, too afraid of his voice sounding as scared as it did.

“Dammit, kid,” Ramsey sighs runs a hand through his hair. He gives Michael this _look_. It’s full of understanding and exhaustion and it’s closer to a goodbye than Michael can handle.

He presses the crescents of his nails into his stomach hoping that it will overwhelm the stinging in his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps in agreement.

For his whole life, Michael’s had hockey. He’s had hockey since he was three years old and glued to his family’s old television. He’s had hockey since his mother bought his first pair of skates when he was six years old. Hockey has been his entire life for the past twenty years.

Michael was going somewhere. He was aspiring, he was promising. His peak years were still ahead of him. Michael was going to be captain of the Roosters. Not now, or maybe not anytime soon. But unless someone else came along who knew the players and the game better than he did, he was getting the C. He should still have _years_. He should still have cups ahead of him. He should have the support of his team and his city.

Instead, he has a leg that doesn’t work right anymore and the speckled pattern of the hospital ceiling.

 

 

“What did that salad ever do to you?” Dr Free chirps.

Michael realises he’s been glowering at said salad for the past twenty minutes. He had the day nurse wheel him down to the cafeteria for lunch. Whatever. It has carrots in it. No self-respecting salad has carrots in it.

Dr Free slides his tray onto the table to Michael’s dismay. “You’d think it killed your father or something.” he pauses, “ _Did_ it kill your father?”

“What are you doing here?” Michael changes from glaring at the salad to violently stabbing it with his fork.

“Oh, you know, doctoring.”

Michael snorts, “I meant, why are you sitting here, asshole?”

The cafeteria around them is filled with other people wearing a wide array of coloured scrubs and lab coats. Michael’s pretty sure they only let him in because of his ‘celebrity status’. That and the doctors’ pity for him.

He’d gotten the day nurse to wheel him down once he realised it wasn’t open during Janice’s shifts. Dr Tuggey said he was allowed to walk around using crutches now, but that would require actually getting up and moving. Both are things Michael is too mopey to do right now.

“Maybe it’s your dazzling personality.” Dr Free says, flashing Michael a wide, Hollywood-esque smile.

Michael laughs at that. It might not be loud and it might not quite reach his eyes, but it’s a laugh. “Shut up. My personality is perfectly wonderful, thank you very much.”

Dr Free holds up his hands in mock defence. Michael’s starting to wish he knew Dr Free’s first name. Dr Free seems way too formal for a guy who totally has pasta sauce all over his chin. “My interns think you’re the devil incarnate.”

“Their faces are the devil incarnate.” Yeah, that was extremely lame. What else is new.

Dr Free smiles with his entire face. “I’ll make sure to tell them that.”

“Great. They better fucking appreciate it.” Michael hides a chuckle, huffing a little for show.

Dr Free reaches out and nudges Michael’s shoulder. He takes another bite of his pasta, then hesitates before opening his mouth. “Look,” he starts, his brows creasing. “I know that things seem tough–-”

“Please,” Michael interrupts him. His voice sounds surprisingly desperate to Michael’s own ears. “Just, don’t. Not right now.”

Dr Free’s forehead grows more lines, “I was just going to say–-”

“Dr Free to OR two. Paging Dr Free to OR two.” The speaker system buzzes to life.

Dr Free coughs into his sleeve before grimacing. “Sorry,” he looks genuinely apologetic. “See you later.” He waves, scooping up his tray and walking briskly to the other end of the cafeteria.

Michael gazes down at the leaves in his salad. They’re small and wilted and the occasionally one has some brown soiling the edges. The salad looks just about how Michael feels.

 

 

The entire world knows about Michael’s leg. Or, it does according to the three Deadspin articles Ramsey sent him and the five missed calls Michael was too afraid to answer from his mom. Even Janice knows, but that’s a little more than expected.

And Janice…Michael hasn’t been able to look her in the eyes since he found out. He’s not exactly sure why; Janice hasn’t sone anything wrong and Michael’s at least 75% sure he hasn’t done anything wrong. Janice has been the closest thing to a friend he’s had in this hospital. Sure he’s had Ramsey and the rest of the team, but they’d just reminded him of all the things he wasn’t doing. And now, Michael remembers, the things he never will do.

Janice still wheels him up and down the hallways at 3 am when Michael can’t sleep. They both conveniently forget his crutches exist. Neither of them mentions hockey. No, they talk about how both of them are terrible cooks and their mutual love of horror movies and the kind of guys they used to date in high school.

It should be weird. Michael’s never been good at holding a conversation with people who didn’t know much about the sport. Even at the fancy dinner parties that he was forced to go to, he’d always find a way to steer it back to the Penguins’ defence or the promise of the new rookies.

It’s…something.

There’s a worn Stephen King novel that appears sometimes on the table in Michael’s room. Half the pages are dogeared and the other half have passages underlined. Janice reads it to Michael on the nights they don’t feel like unpacking a wheelchair. Michael’s not really getting the entire story–it jumps around from chapter to chapter as Janice reads it in her spare time–but he appreciates the sound of her voice.

When that happens, he pretends not to see her looking at him. He pretends he’s not being stared at like some shelter dog.

Maybe it’s not Michael who can’t look her in the eyes, he realises. Maybe it’s her who can’t look at him.

 

 

Exams/sessions/Michael-doesn’t-know-what-they’re-called with Dr Tuggey become more and more frequent as time goes on. She continues smiling at him with that trademark hospital smile; slightly more genuine than a media smile, yet slightly more unnerving. Nearly every day now he’s making the treck by crutches-–Dr Tuggey banned him from relying on the wheelchair anymore–-to the colourful poster-covered office Dr Tuggey calls home.

He’s expecting to be fetched by one of the nurses at the usual time when Dr Free walks through the door. “Good afternoon, Michael!” he whistles. Even after their awkward, heartfelt cafeteria conversation, Dr Free is as unbearable as ever.

“What’s happening?” Michael asks suspiciously. Nearly every one of his past experiences taught him that change in routine is rarely a good thing.

“You’re getting discharged tomorrow!” Dr Free holds up his hands in a small and incredibly dorky celebration. He tends to be incredibly dorky whenever the interns aren’t around. “Woo!”

Michael sticks his nose up. “Finally,” he scoffs, not putting much heat into his tone.

“No need to be so excited,” Dr Free says with a swooping grin. He leans his elbow against the wall, easily seeing through Michael’s front. “Now this doesn’t mean you’ll be completely healed. You still need to come in next week for your appointment with Dr Tuggey and you better be careful with everything you do.”

“I’ll try my best,” Michael’s lopsided grin is cut-off by Dr Free’s abruptly weighty look.

“I’m serious,” he says. Michael’s only heard that voice before when he’s talking to the interns. “Take care of yourself, Michael.”

Michael swallows a nervous lump in his throat. _When did that get there_? “I will,” he forces his voice to sound confident.

Dr Free clears his throat and the air shifts from tense to immensely uncomfortable. “Good luck, I suppose.”

“You too.”

Dr Free laughs and Michael wishes he could snatch the words right out of the air. Well. maybe only a little. He debates whether hearing the loud, intrusive laugh was worth it.

 

 

Michael watches his tears fall three storeys before hitting the parking lot’s pavement. How he got to the roof, Michael barely remembers. Just the gasping awake with the instinct shouting in his brain to get _out_. Anywhere but that hospital room.

He must’ve used his crutches; they lean against the wall a few feet from Michael. The guard rail is sturdy under his fingers.

Michael pulls in a ragged breath and grasps desperately to pull himself together. _This is life now_ , he thinks. Returning to his apartment was a destination in his mind. It was a way to trick himself into thinking things could go back to normal. Maybe once he got home and back into the routine someone could find a way to get him back to the rink and–

But that’s not going to happen.

Before, he hadn’t been hit by the enormity of the situation. This was Michael’s job–-Michael’s _life_. All disappearing between one exhale and another.

“Are you okay?” Dr Free’s voice materialises. Michael hadn’t noticed him approaching, but suddenly there he is with one hand on the guard rail and another on Michael’s shoulder.

Michael does his best impression of a laugh, “What do you think?”

“Do you need anything?”

As Dr Free’s hand clumsily pats his shoulder, Michael tells himself he doesn’t want to lean into it. “No, I just– it’s hard to explain.”

Dr Free hums, nodding his head.

They stand like that for a minute. Watching as the sun skims above the first few clouds peeking over the skyline. It must be later than Michael thought; in his mad dash, he didn’t think to catch the time on the clock. Michael breathes in the city. There are few cars on the streets, but the ones that are create enough ambient noise. People are going about their lives, going to work, triggering car alarms. Minutes tick by with chilled air filling Michael’s lungs and Dr Free soothing circles into his arm.

“Thanks,” Michael says and hates how rough his voice sounds.

“It’s really nothing.”

Michael looks down where a cluster of people holding briefcases and looking serious are walking into the building. “It’s really not.” He meets Dr Free’s eyes. The doctor’s eyebrows are knitted together and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Thank you, Dr Free.”

Dr Free shakes his head, “Gavin. My name’s Gavin.”

“Well then, thank you, Gavin.”

A smirk plays at Dr Free–-Gavin’s mouth. “It’s really nothing.”

Michael feels his face mirroring Gavin’s. He play-punches Gavin’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

 

 

Apparently, the team sent Ray to escort Michael home. Ray sits on a waiting room chair–-some obnoxiously red cardboard-looking thing–-with a cellphone in one hand and a coffee mug in another. Michael’s just glad to have a familiar face that doesn’t inspire an immediate pit in his stomach.

_Geoff must’ve sent him_ , Michael thinks. Burnie would’ve just called an uber.

Unfortunately, some bullshit hospital policy no amount of signed jerseys could convince Dr Tuggey to break dictated that he was to be wheeled out. And everything just circles back around to that damned wheelchair.

Ray waves to him small and shy, and Michael realises just exactly how much time has passed. Just how relative this all is apart from games and playoffs and whether the cafeteria’s serving pasta salad or lasagna. Michael isn’t even sure how many days it’s been.

Michael keeps his eyes on his sneakers as the nurse wheels him forward.

“Hey,” Ray greets. “You look a lot better than when I last saw you.”

Trying not to wince at a harsher-than-necessary clap on the shoulder from Ray, Michael smiles. The last time Ray saw him Michael was a whimpering mess drifting in and out of concussion and morphine-fuelled sleep. “I guess.”

“ _Michael_!”

The nurse’s eye roll is an audible thing. She taps her nails on the top of the wheelchair.

Ray raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Michool?’ he mouths.

Michael shakes his head in time for Gavin’s hand to splay across his shoulder. “Thought I’d missed you already.” Gavin is crouched uncomfortably in a way that attracts half of the waiting room’s occupants’ eyes to his ass. “Dr Tuggey said I should go over to your house…for, you know, recovery reasons. Physical therapy and all that. So just expect me. Some time.”

‘Please kill me now,’ Michael thinks. Because Gavin and him are not buddies. They had their little heart-to-heart on the roof, Michael pretended not to cry, and the moment ended. There is zero reason this should be happening.

He can see Ray biting the inside of his cheek trying his best not to smile. “I’m assuming you already know my address.” Michael hopes his monotone is giving off _exactly_ how unimpressed he is.

Straightening up, Gavin seems to notice Ray, and the nurse, standing there. “Hospital records,” he waves his hands. “I’ll, uh, go now.”

“…Right.” Michael mutters at Gavin’s retreating footsteps.

The nurse practically throws him to Ray. Traitor.

Ray opens his mouth. “That was–-”

“Shut your mouth right fucking now.”

Smugly making a zipped-lips motion, Ray takes hold of the wheelchair. He pushes them out of the hospital. Silently teasing someone seems to be a talent only Ray and Geoff have managed. Michael wonders why he was ever worried.

 

 

Just because Michael was warned doesn’t mean he is at all ready when Gavin appears with a rediculous-looking helmet on his head. He assumes Gavin got his address from some all-knowing-hospital-database-thing. Gavin holds an equally ridiculous helmet in his hand.

“I know you’re in there,” Gavin calls after Michael totally-doesn’t start peering through the peephole.

Michael opens the door. “You are actually insane.”

“You’d be surprised how often I get that.”

Michael ignores Gavin’s supermodel grin and ushers him inside the apartment. “It’s Wednesday,” he says like it’s supposed to mean something. “People usually have plans on Wednesdays.”

(To be fair, Michael kind of did have plans. If laying on the couch all day watching House Hunters counts as plans.)

Gavin makes himself right at home on Michael’s sofa. “Yet here you are, by yourself at home glaring at that innocent toaster. Poor toaster.” When Michael sighs he shifts his jaw. “It’s my first day off in a month. Sue me if I want to look at something other than X-rays of broken collar bones.” Gavin finishes harshly.

“Alright,” Michael brings up a hand defensively, trying not to read into the words. He uses his other hand to fetch a Gatorade from the fridge. “Why biking, though? Are you sure that’s safe?”

Shrugging, Gavin answers, “Probably.”

Michael’s hold around the Gatorade tightens. “Look,” he begins with a plan. Or what’s probably a plan. “How about we just order pizza and play some Halo.”

“I doubt Halo would help your leg all that much.” Gavin has this stupid thoughtful look on his face. Michael kind of wants to slap him.

Instead, he slides onto the couch next to Gavin. His TV’s more than big enough for the two of them to play. “Neither would fucking wrecking it all over again ‘cause _you_ wanted to bike.”

“Dr Tuggey said you could!” Gavin flails his arms around, very nearly knocking Michael in the face.

Michael raises an eyebrow.

“Fine! We won’t go biking.” He concedes, throwing his arms up in defeat. Gavin looks kind of like a seizing goose. “I’ll have to warn you.” All Gavin’s exasperation from before has completely dissipated. Now replaced by some sly confidence Michael’s never seen the doctor wear before. “I am probably the best Halo player you’ll ever meet.”

Michael snorts. “Alright, asshole. We’ll see about that.”

The game quickly devolves. All of a sudden Gavin’s elbow is in his stomach and Michael’s placing a hand over Gavin’s eyes.

Gavin’s hand snakes around Michael’s wrist and he can _so_ take him. It’s been a while, but Michael was and always will be a fighter. The first to drop the gloves was him. To Michael, fighting was a release both on and off the ice. Some way to release the extra edge. Not some necessary evil Coach Sorola always pegged it as.

Michael twists Gavin’s wrist, switching who’s holding on to who. He curls their bodies, now with one of Gavin’s hand pinned under Michael. Gavin tries to push Michael back by the shoulders. It doesn’t work. Michael catches Gavin’s free hands and joins it with the other.

“That wasn’t fair!” Gavin fake pouts.

Michael sends him his best grin. Catching his breath takes longer than it should and when he finally does, Michael realises exactly how Gavin’s pinned underneath him.

“C’mon Gavy,” he stands, pulling Gavin with him. “I think I have some vodka in the cupboard.”

Gavin tilts his head.

“I have no idea what I’m doing with my life,” Michael murmurs later. Lips around a bottle and body tucked firmly under the sofa cushions.

“Do you like Home Depot?” Gavin asks. “You could always do NASCAR?”

Michael manoeuvres over the pillows to look Gavin in the face. “How are those things even remotely related?”

Taking another swig, Gavin sighs. “Oh Mikey Boy. Hockey really is the only sport you care about.”

“That’s not true,” Michael frowns even though it totally is. “I watch football.” He adds lamely. It’s technically not a lie. He watched the Superbowl last year.

“ _American_ football, Michael. It’s like written in the constitution for you to watch that.” Gavin swirls his bottle. In the background, the TV is buzzing with some Real Housewives show neither of them cares about. “Oh well. At least you were original with your Canadian career. Even if it isn’t a real sport.”

“Your face isn’t a real sport.”

Michael’s rebuttal is met with yet another stomach full of Gavin’s elbow.

Gavin did end up winning Halo, but whatever. Michael gets back at him by ‘forgetting’ to mention Gavin left his bike unattended on the street below.

He isn’t fine. He’s far from okay. He’s still unemployed and lonely and has four boxes of hockey gear collecting dust in the guest bedroom. But he’s adjusting to the drafty apartment. Plus, Gavin’s incredibly easy to beat in 99% of the video games they play–it’s become a thing every time Gavin has a day off–even if he still won’t play NHL 14 sober.

The point is, Michael’s not terrible and it’s the best he’s felt in months.

Then Burnie-Motherfucking-Burns _has_ to knock on his door.


	3. PART THREE

PART THREE

 

Michael remembers watching Heyman play the day of the hit. He and his brother smushed themselves as close to the tv as possible to watch the Stanley Cup final.

The Habs weren’t the best team before then. They’d managed to get lucky with an underappreciated second round draft pick: Joel Heyman.

Before his debut season began, barely anyone had heard of him. Yet Heyman dragged the team tooth and claw up to the playoffs. Through a series of lucky wins and Joel Heyman’s hockey genius, the Habs won the Cup in only Heyman’s sophomore year. Half the country wanted to slam him into the boards of their arena. The other half wanted to be him.

His fifth year of playing with the Canadiens and they were expected to win again. Twenty-six years old and Heyman was one of the most famous players in North America.

Then the finals happened.

It should’ve been his second cup. It would’ve been had everything worked out. The Roosters had managed the finals by being the luckiest team on earth (and a suspicious case of ‘the flu’–read: mono–barreling its way through the western teams’ goalies). The Canadiens were supposed to have an easy win. Get in, score some goals, win the Cup.

When the second period started everything seemed to be going to plan. The goalie was at the peak of his game and the score was set 1-0 for the Habs. The Roosters, to their credit, were putting up a better-than-expected fight.

Michael left his brother and the tv screen to grab popcorn out of the microwave. When he got back, the announcers were nearly screaming at each other and his brother’s jaw swung open.

Heyman’s body splayed out on the ice. His stick lay discarded three feet to his left along with the stray drop of blood. He didn’t get up.

Seconds ticked by. The announcers kept shouting. Players from both teams huddled around Heyman. The referee and the Roosters’ captain held a Roosters defenseman by the scruff of his jersey leading him into the dressing room. The crowd was on their feet.

Heyman still didn’t get up.

At age twenty-six, five years into his NHL career, and it was all over in the time it took Michael to get popcorn from the other room. One too many hits, the news said. Just one millimetre in the other direction and he would probably still be wearing those skates now.

In another universe, Michael might’ve even played against him.

Nowadays Joel doesn’t speak to media. He hasn’t since the official statement declaring his ‘retirement’. The Roosters and the Habs are still rivals.

“Michael,” an irritated voice beckons. “Open this door right now.”

In only a pair of sweats and an old Heyman jersey from high school, Michael wanders up to the door. Burnie Burns has barely enough time to pull together a media-worthy grin before the door in slamming in his face.

“Really, Jones? Are you fucking serious right now?”

Michael shrugs despite Burnie not being able to see him. He hopes the silence is telling enough. He doesn’t want to see Burnie Burns. Hell, he doesn’t want to _think_ about Burnie Burns.

“This is immature, even for you.”

A beat passes where Michael considers escaping through the window.

“If you let me in I can give you your paycheck.”

Michael undoes the latch on the door but doesn’t open it. He’s going to have to work harder for that. “What’s the real reason you’re here?” he grumbles.

“What, I can’t just check in on my dear friend?”

“You don’t have friends.”

From the other side of the peephole, Burnie snorts. Burnie’s overdressed blazer and metallic coloured tie make him some sort of beacon for pickpockets everywhere. “Let me in and I’ll tell you,” he tempts.

Michael’s eyes narrow at the peephole. “Fuck off, Burnie.”

Burnie frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, kid. The only way you’re getting your money is if you let me in.”

 

 

After shooting a look of contempt to Michael’s Heyman jersey, Burnie throws his expensive-looking shoes up on the coffee table. “So, Michael,” Burnie begins as Michael stands arms crossed in front of the tv. “You haven’t shown your face in the media lately.”

Michael rolls his eyes. He sends a glare hoping Burnie would just hurry the hell up and get to the point.

“Certain people have…been speculating about you. I’m sure you’ve been keeping up with news about the team,”–Michael hasn’t–“So I’m sure you know this hasn’t been reflecting well on the team.”

Feeling his hands ball themselves into fists, Michael growls. “Oh, _fuck off_. Whatever it is, I’m not doing it.”

“Just hear me out,” Burnie raises his hands defensively. It was hard for anyone on the team to like Burnie, Michael admits. He acts like he knows more about hockey than he does, and when he’s not busy telling everyone how to do their job he’s being a self-righteous son-of-a-bitch about everything else.

Michael gives a quick nod, some part of him hoping Burnie doesn’t notice it and just leaves.

Crossing his hands and finally taking his feet off the coffee table, Burnie continues. “As I was saying, it’s starting to reflect badly on the team. And you seem to be ignoring calls from your manager too.”

Michael happily swipes away any of that guilt. “What are you saying you want me to do?”

“Just go out grocery shopping or something. Get the mail. Go to a broadway musical, I don’t care. Just do something where people–and more importantly reporters–will see you.” If Michael doesn’t know any better he’d almost start thinking Burnie actually cares about him.

“And if I don’t want to?” Michael stretches his eyebrow.

“Ramsey and Haywood specifically are the most affected. I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything messing with their focus, especially this close to playoffs.” Burnie says ominously.

Michael’s not completely sure what ‘affected’ means, but Burnie was the one who convinced Ramsey to stop smuggling flasks on road trips so there’s got to be some weight to his words. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replies.

“Fantastic!” Burnie nearly leaps off the couch. He starts springing to the door before Michael can do anything this start negotiating or, more likely, punch him. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“What about my money?” Michael asks. That _had_ been his entire reason for letting the guy into his apartment.

Burnie whistles, “For that, you’ll need to come by the office.

Burying a scoff, Michael blinks at the slamming shut door. “ _Motherfucker_.”

 

 

Being unemployed, Michael thinks, is a lot more fun in movies.

Hockey is–was his only real talent. It was his only dream. It was the only thing that made the air in Michael’s lungs worth fighting for. Now he’s stuck in an apartment he never really liked in the first place and a rapidly depleting liquor supply. Not to mention the stupid routines he needs to go through to ‘avoid injuring’ his leg. On the bright side, he’s playing NHL 14 better than he has in years.

When Gavin visits, he tells stories about whatever patient he had to deal with that week. Michael spends the time memorising the languid curve of Gavin’s neck, the dips and crests of Gavin’s accent, the elegant lines of Gavin’s forearms.

If her sly looks are anything to go by, Dr Tuggey’s started to catch on that their ‘physical therapy’ sessions are nothing more than getting drunk enough for both of them to pass out on Michael’s sofa. She doesn’t press it, though, so Michael pretends to be oblivious to her knowledge.

Austin is a strange place to be without hockey. Sure, it’s not as big as football, but on the rare occasions Michael goes out, it seems to be everywhere he looks. Michael pulls his laptop open. _Austin’s been a good run_ , Michael thinks as he bookmarks a page with the title ‘New Jersey Realtors’.

 

 

“Listen, you’ll just sit there and smile at the cameras.”

“No.”

Burnie rolls his eyes. “They’re free tickets, Michael. Half of this city would probably literally kill you to have them.”

“Let them,” Michael challenges. He stuffs his hands further into his pockets. “I’m not going.”

Burnie’s office feels more soulless than the last time he was here. There’s significantly less terror of being traded this time around–not that Burnie himself has much sway over Michael being traded or not. That was all up to Hullum.

“You can bring someone with you.”

Michael’s metaphorical puppy-dog-ears perk up at that.

“Of course, they’d have to pay for their own ticket–and have to put up with your grumpy, antisocial ass–but it _would_ be a bit weird for you to be there alone.” Burnie drums his fingers on his desk. There’s a moment where the only sound in the room is the _tap tap tap_ of his nails hitting oak.

Thoughts swirling his head, Michael straightens up. Surely he could…

Burnie waves a hand dismissively. “Anyways. Point is you’re going. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Michael grumbles just to be stubborn.

He limps out of the building; his limp being something Dr Tuggey warned him about for a while and possibly–terrifyingly–forever. His car is parked in the same spot it’s been parked in for the last three and a half years: sandwiched in between Haywood’s gas-guzzling four-door pickup and Some Asshole from management’s convertible.

Except the convertible isn’t there. Instead, rests some shiny, sports-car looking thing. Even more pretentious than the convertible.

Michael stops. _Huh_ , the thinks, blinking at the sports-car. _That’s new_.

 

 

He didn’t bring it up to Gavin about the tickets until nearly too late. Gavin was spread out on Michael’s loveseat with one leg draped over the back. His shirt had ridden up a couple inches revealing enough of Gavin’s pale stomach to distract Michael. In turn, Michael’s using his leg as an excuse to take up as much space as possible on the couch. The digital clock was flashing 1:57 am. Hockey Wives of all things was on TV and despite Michael’s disgust of any and all things Adam Kovic-related (fuck you, Kovic. The Roosters would’ve one that game if you hadn’t broken Ramsey’s nose) he was starting to feel sorry for the poor bastard. Michael was pretty sure he could hear Gavin’s loud-ass breathing start to fade into Gavin’s loud-ass snoring.

He still had no idea what he was doing. It could’ve been a bad idea. It was probably a very bad idea. He really shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

“Hey, Gavin?” he asked softly, tentatively.

Gavin made a noise and shuffled around. He propped himself up on an elbow, “Yeah?”

“D’ya wanna go to a hockey game on Wednesday?”

_It’s not **really** a date_ , Michael thought. _Gavin’s probably not into dudes–and if he is he’s not necessarily into **me**. It’s just a friend-outing. Yeah. That makes sense. Not a date._

Rubbing at his eyes, Gavin shrugged. The movement drew Michael’s eyes to his long, gangly limbs. “If I can get the day off…”

“I can pay for you,” Michael suggested. _Not a date_ , he reminded himself.

Gavin had smirked and faked a cough. “I’m so sorry, Dr Tuggey,” he said in a voice dripping with false innocence. “Surely I can’t work today with this nasty cough. It might be contagious.”

Naturally, that had led to now: three days later with Michael pacing in the public washrooms of the Fullscreen Center.

The game still doesn’t start for at least another half hour. Right now’s just practices and drills and cutesy teenagers holding up ‘TAKE ME TO PROM’ signs. Michael’s never been in the Fullscreen Center’s public restrooms before. Usually, he was back there in the dressing rooms. Laughing at Ramsey eagerly planning whatever bar to go to after the game. Never with the crowd. Never the one cheering.

And Gavin–oh god–Gavin’s out there in the uncomfortable ass seats with a ridiculously dressed hot dog. Gavin who Michael left ten minutes ago because of an overwhelming need to be away from all the familiar jerseys and the familiar ice. Gavin whose smile could brighten an entire room.

_Shit_.

Michael rinses his hands under cool water for no reason. He catches his own eyes in the mirror. “You can do this,” he says to himself. His cheeks flush after he realises where he is and is suddenly thankful the bathrooms are so uncharacteristically empty.

Gavin’s smiling ear-to-ear when Michael’s done worming his way through the stands. He’s already eaten the entire hot dog and has his hand wrapped possessively around a bag of chips. “Not much exciting has happened yet.”

Michael hums. They’re sitting in the normal spectator seats, even though they probably shouldn’t be. Turns out Burnie’s generosity only extends so far. Michael couldn’t say he was surprised when he was forced to wear a baseball cap and hope none of the fans are enthusiastic enough to approach him.

“You been keeping up with the Kings much?” Gavin asks, his voice going hesitant on ‘the Kings’ like he isn’t used to saying it.

Michael shrugs and hums again, losing himself in the drag of his teammates’ skates on the ice. The familiar drills Michael could walk through with his eyes closed. “Kovic–number 72–he’s an ass. His wife was on that Hockey Wives show.”

Gavin nods while trying to stealthily open the bag of chips.

“When you get Kovic and Greene–number 66–together it’s like getting punched in the face by a fucking two-headed shark,” Michael announces absently. Ramsey and Haywood are leaning up against the boards talking and Michael feels like _he_ was punched in the face by a fucking two-headed shark.

As if on cue, Michael makes eye contact with Haywood. Haywood smiles and jerks his chin in Michael and Gavin’s direction. Gavin’s started babbling about whether sharks know they’re sharks or whether or not heatstroke affects sharks, but Michael’s really only half-listening.

Ramsey turns and suddenly Michael’s throat feels too tight. Ramsey’s face lights up, though. Even from the stands, Michael can see the colourings of a fading bruise on his cheek. Stomach churning, Michael waves.

Ramsey waves back with infinitely more enthusiasm. He blows a kiss and flutters his eyelashes and Michael can hear camera clicks sweeping over the arena already. He can’t find it in his heart to care all that much about what ends up on Deadspin, that whole phase of his life was over years ago. After Haywood nods, he and Ramsey skate back to the rest of the team.

Michael feels Gavin’s hand around his arm. “Are you okay?” Gavin asks.

“Yeah,” he answers. It’s surprisingly less of a lie than he thought it would be. “I’m good.”

Somewhere between the first and second period, Gavin’s hand ends up laying on Michael’s knee.

The game passes about as uneventfully as a game against the Kings can. The Roosters lose the game 2-1 because of course they do ( _fuck you Kovic_ ) and Michael pays for the Patillo jersey Gavin insists on getting.

When they’re in the car back to Michael’s apartment and Gavin starts looking at him with these _fucking bedroom_ _eyes_ , Gavin’s still holding the jersey. Michael tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He’s not even sure if Gavin’s aware of the heat his gaze is emitting. He’s just that naturally attractive.

“Was this a date?” Gavin asks.

Michael doesn’t look at the expression on Gavin’s face. “I don’t know. Was it?” he feels his face heating up.

Gavin’s silent for a long, terrible second. “Yeah. Sure. It was a date.”

“Okay,” Michael breathes. “So it was a date.”

 

 

Michael mouths at the area between Gavin’s neck and shoulder. There are going to be marks there tomorrow if there’s anything Michael can do about it. Gavin’s hand tangles itself in Michael’s curls and Michael lets out a breathy moan against Gavin’s collar bone. Gavin tugs Michael up for a kiss. He kisses Michael like Michael’s mouth has the only air left in the room. Like Gavin’s drowning in space and Michael’s his only hope of surviving. Michael’s probably kissing him the same way.

Gavin gives a little gasp, more of a sharp inhale really, as Michael’s teeth tug at his bottom lip. Their hands are pressed up against the wall. The harsh press of Gavin’s body along Michael’s burning heat into Michael. Nudging Gavin further into the wall, he slots his good knee between Gavin’s legs and feels the groan leave Gavin’s lips.

Michael pulls his face back. Partly for air and partly to see the flush flaring along Gavin’s cheekbones.

“God,” Gavin groans, shamelessly rutting against Michael’s knee. Michael slathers wet kisses along the curve of Gavin’s shoulder. It should all feel too hot. There are more area’s of their bodies where they aren’t touching than are.

Gavin’s nails dig into the fabric of Michael’s jacket and Michael feels the space behind his eyes melt. “Fuck.”

He’d never thought about this–he’d never let himself _think_ about this. Nothing feels real enough and Michael wants to hold on. As he scrapes his teeth against Gavin’s collarbone, Gavin lets out a breathy moan. There are probably better, more romantic places to do this than the hallway of Michael’s apartment, but Michael never wants to let go of this.

Gavin’s hand begins to wander. It travels down Michael’s spine, follows the curve of his hip, before running over the fabric of his jeans.

Michael doesn’t mean to–his bad leg stopped hurting weeks ago and the majority of the damage was calf-level–but he flinches. Nothing major. Just the smallest of twitches in his thigh.

Expelling a gasp, Gavin pulls away, a strange and unfamiliar look on his face. “I–sorry–I…”

Michael opens his mouth to say, ‘ _Everything’s fine_ ’ but before he can, Gavin’s already pulling away.

“I can’t do this–we–God, Michael–” Gavin smooths down the sleeves of his shirt.

He’s already started pulling the front door open when Michael gathers his thoughts enough to protest, “Wait!”


	4. PART FOUR

PART FOUR

 

Despite Michael’s best efforts, his mother shows up the next day. Michael doesn’t know she’s coming—he doesn’t even know she’s _planned on it_ until she’s at Michael’s door with about three suitcases and an overwhelmingly disapproving glare.

“Hey, Mom,” Michael begins with a nervous smile, “It’s good to see you.”

His mother only narrows her eyes, “Just show me to the guest room.”

Michael chuckles and takes two of her suitcases before he can do anything _too_ stupid. He leads her to the guest bedroom with the unexplainable draft, because it’s his house and she showed up without warning and he’s allowed to be a little spiteful, okay?

“I’ll get you a blanket,” he says after dropping the suitcases beside the closet.

His mother wedges herself between Michael and the door. “ _Oh no_ ,” she begins and Michael feels a bottomless pit open in his stomach. “You don’t get out of this so easily.”

A lump appears in Michael’s throat.

“You go to the hospital, you can’t play hockey anymore, you nearly _lose your leg_ ”—okay that wasn’t fair, the only people saying he was going to lose his leg were those he-said-she-said type hockey gossip blogs—“and I have to find all this out from your Aunt Sharon because she has those Google alert things on her phone!”

Michael flinches from the sheer force in her eyes. “Everything—”

“There are people who care about you, Michael! I care about you. I want to know when you’re injured,” she barrels on. “So then I try to call you! But _no_ , Michael Jones, famous hockey player, is far too important to take phone calls from his own mother.”

Michael winces again. The back of his neck is sweating and this is about the only time in his life that Michael is grateful for that freaking Mysterious Guest Room Draft. “I was—”

“I finally get a call from that nice doctor for your team, Mr Narveaz, who was the only person to explain to me what the hell was happening.” She pokes her finger into the slightly softer than usual muscle of Michael’s chest. “And you _still_ ignore my calls. Thanks for that, by the way. It took me an entire week to convince your brother not to fly down here with me.”

When Michael’s left with her heavy gaze, he says—no, not says, whimpers out an, “I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are.” She faux punches (or real punches, it’s pretty hard to tell) his shoulder, “Don’t so that again.”

“I won’t,” Michael says to his feet. “If I ever get hurt or sick or whatever, I’ll tell you as soon as possible. I promise.”

His mom nods and presses her mouth into a straight line. She hasn’t totally forgiven him, but Michael can tell for the moment he’s appeased her. “Good,” she straightens up. “Now make me dinner. That shit at the airport doesn’t even deserve to be called food.”

Michael feels like he's allowed to give a half-smile, so he does. He leads his mother to the main area of his apartment before beginning to doubt whether or not he actually has real food in his cupboards. “You can, like, watch tv if you want. I think Philly’s playing Pittsburgh tonight; that’s always interesting,” he suggests. His mom just huffs something that could be mistaken for laughter and slides into a barstool at the island.

 

 

Things are going decently enough. Michael’s only thought of Gavin once so fat the entire evening and his mom hasn’t threatened to not invite him to next year’s Christmas yet, so that’s all good.

He does end up watching the last period of the Philly vs. Pittsburgh game, despite the judgemental looks his mother keeps sending at him. None of his family ever really got hockey the way Michael did. They couldn’t understand the feeling of the ice beneath his skates, the way it felt more like home than their cramped apartment. Sometimes that made Michael treasure hockey even more. Like it was something that was just Michael’s and didn’t want to share it with anyone (except for maybe Joel Hayman). When Michael was little though, small and impressionable and the only thing he knew what that he wanted hockey more than he wanted anything else in his life, a lot of the time it made him lonely. There weren’t many kids in New Jersey who wanted to just play street hockey or spend all that money on good hockey gear when they could just play soccer like everyone else.

By the time Pittsburgh wins 3 - 2, his mom’s dozing on the couch. Michael gets up and shakes her shoulder, directing her towards the guest room after she blinks herself awake. “Night,” he whispers. She nods at him, shuffling down the hallway like an extra from the Walking Dead and mumbling something about jetlag Michael isn’t sure he believes.

Michael’s just changing the channel, deciding between watching a rerun of Storage Wars or a rerun of Castle, when the phone rings. Michael scrambles to the phone, not wanting it to wake his mother up and nearly breaking the remote in the process.

“Mr Jones?” a familiar voice greets after Michael presses the talk button.

Michael clears his throat before answering, “Good evening, Dr Tuggey.”

“I’m sorry for calling so late. How are you, Michael?” She asks and Michael feels the same twinge of unease he feels whenever anyone from that hospital (aside from Gavin, of course) uses his first name like that.

“The leg’s okay. I’ve been able to work down my daily self-dosages of ibuprofen,” he jokes. “The therapy sessions really have been helping.” Michael tries not to let his voice give away too much with the way he says that last sentence.

Dr Tuggey either doesn’t notice anything or doesn’t care because she continues on to say, “About those therapy sessions…”

“Yeah?”

“It would be best if you came into the hospital from now on.” Michael’s stomach drops. “I mean, I wasn’t even really supposed to allow those in the first place. And it would really be easier for me to monitor your progress in person.”

“Of course,” Michael mutters feeling a melting pot of ugly emotions bubbling in his chest.

Dr Tuggey exhales, “Great. I’m glad you understand.”

Michael wants to hit something. He wants to march right over to that hospital and find Gavin and—and break his desk or something. If he even has a desk. _Shit_. How could Michael have been such an idiot? He should have just sweet-talked Griffon Ramsey into letting him sit with her and the other WAGs. He should have never invited Gavin to that motherfucking game, never should have kissed him against the motherfucking door of his apartment.

“Mr Jones? Is everything alright Mr Jones?”

“Yes—Yeah, of course.” Michael feels a blush rise to his cheeks, “Just spaced out for a moment.”

“Right,” Dr Tuggey says sceptically. “Anyways, I’ll see you at 1 pm next Tuesday?”

Michael tries his best to make the vocal equivalent of a thumbs up, “I’ll be there.”

“Have a good night, Mr Jones.”

“Right. You too.”

Michael’s not an idiot. He can put together it was Gavin’s idea. That Gavin doesn’t want to see him anymore. That Gavin doesn’t want Michael.

The dial tone sounds. Michael’s leg doesn’t work and the only thing he’s tried to care about in years that wasn’t hockey just told him to fuck himself and his leg _doesn’t fucking work_. Michael stands in his apartment with the phone pressed to his ear until his wrist starts to hurt.

 

 

Michael gets less sleep than he should have, but he chugs two cups of coffee before his mom wakes up and hopes she doesn’t notice. She does. And she ends up guilting Michael into letter her stay for two weeks because apparently while Michael was off playing professional hockey, it became possible to just take weeks off work at a time.

She cleans his house. Organises three of the closets and cleans the ensuite bathroom sink at least twice. And it—it makes him feel taken care of, don’t get him wrong. It’s nice to have his mom there just like it always is, but three days into her visit he starts to feel smothered. And it’s not like Michael has anything else to do but sit at home and sulk like he’s been doing since the game against the Kings. He can’t go for a run or to the gym like he usually would. He hasn’t really connected with the Austin nightlife since last season when they almost beat Minnesota in round one of the playoffs. So, in a last-ditch effort to keep his sanity, Michael sends a text to Ramsey.

**Jonesy: you free tonight?  
**

He briefly considers asking Haywood to join them but thinks better of it. The guy can barely go three minutes without mentioning about his kids or his wife or his dogs and Michael doesn’t really think he could handle that tonight.

Michael’s phone dings. Ramsey’s sent him a picture of a bottle of a six-pack and about three lines of thumbs up emoji’s.

**Ramsey: Yours or mine?**

**Jonesy: yours. my moms visiting for nxt couple weeks  
Jonesy: she keeps organizing my closets  
**

**Ramsey: Say no more.**

Ramsey sends another slough of emojis Michael can’t bother to interpret. The guy must be spending too much time around the rookies. Michael quickly tells his mom he’s going to a friends house, promising to not be back too late but never specifying what exactly ‘too late’ is. On a whim, he decides to stop at a convenience store and pick up a six-pack of cheap beer of his own. They probably won’t make it through all the beer combined, but extra alcohol has never been a bad thing.

Michael doesn’t really want to talk about his feelings. Scratch that. Michael definitely doesn’t want to talk about his feelings. Unfortunately, the look Ramsey’s sporting when Michael swings open his front door is the same look he aimed at Michael when he was newly traded to Austin, stupid in the way twenty-three-year-olds are and always forgetting his actions didn’t have consequences.

Pushing past Ramsey, Michael saunters into the Ramseys’ living room or family room or whatever-you-call-the-room-you-sit-and-drink-in and tries his best not to take offence. He heaves his six-pack onto the coffee table.

“How are you?” Ramsey asks. He sits himself in an oversized beige armchair.

Michael shrugs and figures that if there’s anything to distract Ramsey from talking about Michael’s problems it’s hockey. “How’s my replacement?”

“He’s…” Ramsey hesitates. “Alright.”

“Real specific,” Michael deadpans.

Ramsey cracks open a can of beer along with a smile. “His name’s Jeremy Dooley. Brought up from the minors. He’s a centre though so I’ve got no idea what the fuck Burnie was thinking in bringing him up.”

Sipping on his beer, Michael hums.

Out of nowhere, he gets the flash of a memory; halfway through a road trip that seemed to never end. The entire team sick of being away from home when Ramsey decided to herd everyone up. Ramsey and Haywood led them all to some seedy bar in the middle of Winnipeg, somehow managing to successfully navigate through the hell that is Winnipeg-ian roads during freaking December. Through a combination of a karaoke machine and sheer luck, Haywood managed to convince Patillo into paying half the tab, letting the entire team—mostly the rookies taking advantage of the low drinking age—get drunk off their ass in Canadian beer.

Michael had slung his arm across the back of the pleather seats, sloshing his beer and laughing at Ramsey and Patillo trying to sing ‘Teenage Dream’ while Haywood glares his crazy eyes at a rookie for daring to call him ‘Woody’. It hit Michael then. That Austin could be something to become a home. That these crazy maniacal people could become his family.

Michael brushes the memory away even though for some reason he wants to mention it to Ramsey. He wants to make Ramsey understand the significance of that road trip. How it all made him feel.

“Sorola’s going just as crazy as the rest of us,” Ramsey continues. “He’s trying his best to make Marquis work as a right-winger for Dooley on the second line while Woody and I get Luna. So, y’know. Our playoff chances are pretty slim, as per fucking usual. We’re all making bets on when Sorola will snap and just march into Burnie’s office to freaking strangle him.”

Michael chuckles, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Tipping his beer back, Ramsey once again turns his gaze on Michael. Michael tries not to visibly shrink in his spot on the Ramseys’ chesterfield. “How’s the whole ‘living life’ thing going?”

He draws the corner of his mouth up in a weak imitation of a smile, “Pretty shitty. Although my only experience with life post-h—the ‘living life’ thing so far has been fixing my useless leg.”

‘Post-hockey’ Michael had almost said. But that felt a little too raw. A little too _real_ for this conversation.

Ramsey, being the angel he is, doesn’t say anything about Michael’s slip-up. Instead, he drinks enough beer to tranquillize a horse and bickers with Michael about the Habs’ defence. Ramsey doesn’t try to talk about how pathetic Michael’s life is right now. He does keep looking at Michael with that same careful look. The same look that pretty much everybody except for Gavin looked at him with.

 

 

By the time Tuesday rolls around, Michael’s amassed a hurricane of frustration that hums and itches under his skin. Dr Tuggey smiles at him after he walks into her office. The same one Michael was in all those weeks ago when she found out he could never play again.

“Great to see you, Michael.”

“You too,” Michael hums just to be polite.

Her office is filled with a plethora of PT equipment he hadn’t noticed the last time he was here. Still, Dr Tuggey pats the paper-covered table and Michael hops up onto it. “From the reports Dr Free gave me, or lack thereof, I think it’s safe to assume there wasn’t much actual physical therapy going on at those sessions.”

Michael feels his cheeks heat and tries to distract himself from the twist in his stomach by studying the posters plastering the office walls.

Surprisingly, Dr Tuggey smiles instead of sticking him with a disapproving look. “That’s alright. I know what Dr Free can be like and I wouldn’t have approved them if it would’ve caused more harm than good to your health.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

Dr Tuggey picks up a clipboard and scribbles something down. “So, I think the first thing we’ll start with today—”

“Lindsay, Mrs Atkinson’s complaining about her pillows again,” a familiar British voice whined as the door to Dr Tuggey’s office swung open.

Michael goes rigid.

Dr Tuggey swings around, clipboard still in hand. “Just get one of the interns to deal with it,” she rolls her eyes at Gavin— _No. Not Gavin_ , Michael reminds himself. _It’s Dr Free now—_ She rolls her eyes at Dr Free. “It’s what they’re here for.”

Feeling his hands ball into fists, Michael takes a deep breath. Across the room, _Dr Free_ looks even more deer-in-the-headlights than Michael feels.

“R-right,” Dr Free stutters.

“Now get out of here,” Dr Tuggey says. She sounds like she’s teasing him more than commanding him. Like their relationship could extend beyond just colleagues. Michael’s nails dig into his palms and he’s sure there are going to be red marks. “I’m with your patient.”

Gavin has that same shocked look on his face, standing stock still and staring somewhere over Michael’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again, Michael. It’s been a while,” he says nonsensically.

“It’s been exactly a week,” Michael snarls keeping his face and tone void of any emotion and Gavin flinches. He actually has the nerve to flinch away from Michael’s words. Michael feels a moment of sick satisfaction.

“Do you think…” Gavin trails off in Michael’s direction. Michael doesn’t know if he should care about what Gavin wants to ask. He doesn’t know if he wants to care. “Can we get a coffee when you’re done here? I’m sure I can sweet talk my way into an extra ten minutes off,” Gavin looks at Michael hopefully. He’s all swooping eyelashes and those green doe-eyes.

Michael laughs something humourless, harsh, and bitter. “If you think I want to get coffee with you after you ran out—”

“I can explain. Let me explain myself.” If Michael didn’t know any better he’d almost think Gavin was trying to plead with him.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Dr Tuggey’s face morphs into a look of surprise as Gavin winces again.

“Michael…” Gavin says.

“Dr Free, I think you should go deal with Mrs Atkinson’s pillows,” Dr Tuggey warns with an edge in her voice. “Mr Jones and I are in the middle of an appointment.”

Gavin sends one last lingering look in Michael’s direction which Michael very pointedly does not acknowledge. “Yes, Dr Tuggey,” he says quietly and slips out of the door soundlessly.

The office takes on an eerie quiet. Michael refuses to meet Dr Tuggey’s questioning look as they both sit there absorbing whatever-the-hell it was that just happened. Eventually, Dr Tuggey adjusts her grip on her clipboard. “Okay,” she breathes. “Let’s get on with this appointment, then.”

Michael, who would rather be anywhere else right now, closes his eyes. He offers her a stiff nod, takes a deep breath in, and opens his eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for all the inevitable medical/hockey playing inaccuracies!  
> If you find any mistakes or have any constructive criticism please feel free to tell me :)


End file.
